


Take Me Home

by MiniMangaFan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, M/M, New Year's Eve, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMangaFan/pseuds/MiniMangaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I get off at half-eleven,” R says in a rush when he’s next in front of Enjolras, refilling a small bowl of nuts. “Managed to snag a good shift, and I’ve got no plans for later, so what d’you say? Want to spend New Year’s with me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> so I've been writing this fic for like, a month now, and it's finally here!! only 29 days after the intended posting date too
> 
> thank you sO much to [ramona](http://deadpokerface.tumblr.com/) for encouraging me to write this and supporting me throughout the process c:

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone on New Year’s,” Enjolras groans into his phone, holding it between his head and shoulder as he pours hot water into his mug. There’s too much water in the kettle, at least enough for three people with a little left over, but since it’s just Enjolras he’ll have to drink it all himself. Combeferre would tell him three cups of coffee is too much for one person, but since Combeferre fucked off to Barcelona with Courfeyrac to see Courfeyrac’s family for the holidays, Combeferre can keep his hypocritical words of wisdom to himself.

“You’re a big boy, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says; Enjolras can practically see him rolling his eyes. “I think you can handle a few more days without us. Besides, don’t you have Feuilly? You must have plans to spend New Year’s together?”

Enjolras dumps a spoonful of instant coffee into the water and sighs as he stirs. “He’s gone back to see his family as well.”

“But you’re not gonna call him up and complain, are you?” Combeferre must say something just out of Enjolras’ hearing range because Courfeyrac bursts into laughter, making Enjolras wince. “Enjolras, here’s what you’re gonna do.”

“Occupy myself for the day, get an early night and some decent sleep now that I’m not being kept up by you and Combeferre going at it like rabbits twenty-four-seven?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Courfeyrac deadpans. “But seriously, don’t spend New Year’s alone moping, go out to a bar, literally any bar, or somewhere public and have fun. Even if you hate every moment, just last until midnight and then make your excuses and leave. For me?”

“You sound like you need to coax me into this,” Enjolras laughs, switching ears on the phone and picking up the coffee. “I’ll go out, I promise. It’s not like I really wanted to spend New Year’s alone.”

“Good, now if you’ll excuse me, Combeferre is attempting to speak Spanish to my mother and I _have_ to see that.”

“Of course, try not to pop a hard-on, yeah?” He hangs up before Courfeyrac can reply, taking his coffee into the living room and putting on the news.

***

The bar Enjolras ends up in is honestly just the first one he came across that looked like he’d be able to spend a few hours in there without suffocating. It’s not too crowded, most of the tables are taken but there’s a spot at the very end of the bar, near enough the toilets that it’s ‘undesirable’ and open for Enjolras to take.

He sits and takes off his scarf, stuffing it into his lap and grabbing the nearest cocktail menu. It’s two-for-one on everything, which is tempting, but Enjolras doesn’t have anyone to share them with, and drinking alone at a bar is sad. And Enjolras is still the biggest lightweight in existence, so maybe getting hammered with no one to look out for him isn’t the greatest idea. Still, he could find someone to share them with, it’s not like the bar is full of people that would turn down a free cocktail or two.

Before he can turn to scan the room, the man serving drinks leans on the counter in front of him and grins. “What can I get you?”

Enjolras’ jaw falls a little; the man is striking, all dark hair and pale skin, with a deep purple mark decorating his left cheekbone. His smile is easy and a little flirty, probably because he’s a bartender, but Enjolras is buying the act that it’s all for him.

“Uh,” he stares down at the menu, too many fancy names jumping off the laminate to choose, so he drops it and blurts out “A cider, please,” instead.

“Didn’t fancy a cocktail then?” The man asks, grabbing a bottle from the fridge below the bar, uncaps it and slides it over to Enjolras, accepting the euros in return.

“No one to share them with,” Enjolras shrugs, taking a sip. “Drinking a Flirtiniall alone is pretty sad.”

The man raises a brow, his fingers dancing over a bottle opener. “Not out with anyone?”

Fuck it, Enjolras can play this game. He can drink and flirt and make Courfeyrac proud of him. “Waiting for someone to catch my eye,” he grins, and takes a long drink of cider, keeping up the eye contact with the man.

“Well, it’s New Year’s Eve, the world’s your oyster.” He leaves then, shooting Enjolras one last smile before serving a customer on the opposite side of the bar. Enjolras watches him bend to scoop crushed ice out of a bucket and allows himself just one moment to study the curve of the man’s arse, before he’s looking at the scratches on the wood in front of him.

It’s only half-nine, he’s got the whole night to kill, and as nice as the bartender is to look at, Enjolras doesn’t think he can spend all evening here. Just an hour or so; he wants to commit the way the man’s trousers hug his hips to memory before he leaves.

He’s in the processing of deciding where to go next when the man returns, broad grin reshaping the mark on his cheek. “How’s the cider treating you, Curly? Ready for a cocktail yet?”

“I thought we agreed that drinking cocktails alone on New Year’s is sad?” Enjolras says, nudging his cider to emphasise the point. “And Curly? Really? My name is—”

“I don’t want to know your name,” the man cuts him off. “Curly suits you. This is a business relationship, you’re a consumer, I’m providing a service, kinda. We’ve got to keep things professional. And you’re not alone, I’m right here.”

“Right,” Enjolras says slowly, shaking out his curls just a little. “And you knowing my name would make this relationship too unprofessional, but you drinking cocktails with me instead of working would be…completely within the boundaries of your job?”

“I never said I’d be drinking the cocktails with you,” he points out, and fuck, smugness suits him more than Enjolras is okay with; brown eyes lighting up as he talks. “I’ll just be standing here, keeping you company and teasing you about your choice in drinks.”

“How do you know I’ve got an embarrassing taste in drinks?”

“Because of all the cocktails on that menu, the one you remembered best was called a Flirtini,” the man laughs, and the sound doesn’t make Enjolras’ cheeks colour, not at all.

He leaves again, filling orders for more customers, making cocktails and filling up pint after pint. Enjolras is more than a little enamoured with the man’s hands, skimming over glass and the wood of the counter, never stopping or slowing down, just the like the man himself, it seems. Maybe Enjolras should spend a little longer here.

“Even if you don’t want to tell me your name,” Enjolras starts when the man comes back, because no matter how many customers he gets, when there’s a gap, he’s always right back in front of Enjolras, “I should get a nickname. You gave me a nickname, it’s only fair that I should have one for you. We’re on unequal footing here, and professional relationships should always be equal.”

“Professional relationships are all about power, Curly,” the man scoffs, wiping a pint glass with a dry towel. “But if you buy a cocktail, I might consider telling you mine.”

Enjolras beams. “One Flirtini, please.”

The man laughs again. Enjolras’ smile stretches wider, because he did that. He sets about mixing the vodka and pineapple juice, adding in a number of other things that Enjolras doesn’t really pay attention to, captivated by the man’s hands.

“I’m R,” he says when he’s done, pushing the glass towards Enjolras and taking the money. “Satisfied?”

Enjolras tastes the drink, humming contentedly as the vodka burns his throat. “Never.”

“What’re your plans for the evening then, Curly?” R asks when he’s finished serving a group of girls taking advantage of the offer on cocktails. “This can’t be your last stop for the evening?”

“Well, we’ve already established that I’m waiting for someone to catch my eye,” Enjolras says, and R nods, resting his chin on his hands in exaggerated interest. “So I guess I’m playing it by ear, nothing solid planned yet.”

R flattens his palms on the surface, tapping his fingers and biting his lip as he watches Enjolras for a long moment. He looks like he’s on the precipice of saying something, when someone calls for another round and he’s darting off, mixing drinks and laughing as Enjolras stares after him.

“I get off at half-eleven,” R says in a rush when he’s next in front of Enjolras, refilling a small bowl of nuts. “Managed to snag a good shift, and I’ve got no plans for later, so what d’you say? Want to spend New Year’s with me?”

Enjolras takes a sip of his drink, forcing himself not to answer straight away and come across overeager. “Will I get to know your name?” he asks, aiming for coy and probably landing somewhere in the general vicinity of flirtatious, given how R’s face splits into a smile.

“Probably not,” he replies easily, “I quite like this air of mystery I’ve conjured for myself. But I can promise that I’m fun.”

“Then sure,” Enjolras says, “it’s New Year’s, why not? But I’m a hard man to please, R.”

“I’ll be sure to rise to the challenge,” he winks, taking Enjolras’ empty cocktail glass and setting it to the side. “Starting, with getting you the free cocktail to go with this one. Can’t have fun on New Year’s when you’re sober.”

Enjolras doesn’t bother with anymore alcohol after he finishes the second Flirtini, opting for water instead until R’s off the clock and able to drink with him. The later it gets, the less R is able to sit and chat with him, so Enjolras passes the time texting Feuilly and Courfeyrac, and playing some app Courfeyrac recommended he get on his phone. By the time half-eleven rolls around he’s sufficiently buzzed and ready to get up and do something.

“Ready to go?” R whispers from behind Enjolras, startling him off the stool with a squeak.

“Try not to give me a heart attack, yeah?” Enjolras says, laughter lacing his voice. He straightens and catches sight of R out of his uniform, wearing the same tight black trousers but now with a dark grey hoodie that looks so soft Enjolras wants to reach out and stroke the fabric. At least he can blame the breathlessness on the scare.

“A few surprises will keep you on your toes, Curly.” R angles his head towards the bar’s exit. “I know somewhere nicer than this shithole where we can start the night off right.”

“Lead the way.” Enjolras follows R out of the bar, wincing as the frigid air outside bites at his skin. He pulls his coat on as quickly as he can, almost falling over in the process. He catches himself on R’s arm, just in time to hear him burst into laughter.

“Please tell me this is the alcohol getting to you already, and you’re not just a naturally clumsy person.” R steadies him, hands gripping Enjolras’ upper arms firmly. His brown eyes are even softer in the moonlight, the port-wine stain on his cheek washed of colour. Enjolras barely even registers what he says, he’s so caught up by how _pretty_ R is. “Hello? Curly, you alright there?”

“What?” Enjolras giggles, shaking his head a little as he disentangles himself from R’s grip. Better for his ability to think that way. “I’m not usually too bad, promise.”

“Right, well, try not to crack your skull, please,” R says, starting to walk again, a little faster this time, but Enjolras matches his pace easily. “That’d be a shit way of starting off the New Year.”

“Point,” Enjolras concedes, dodging a drunk couple stumbling down the path. R’s leading him out of the city centre where the main bars and clubs are, so they’re going against the flow of people, and into unfamiliar territory for Enjolras.

“Just up here, and ten minutes to midnight too,” R says when they arrive outside a smoky bar, opening the door for Enjolras to go in first. It’s a lot smaller than the one R worked at, but it’s nowhere near as busy and there’s something about the atmosphere that Enjolras likes. Dimmed lights sporadically placed along the walls keep everything muted except reds and oranges; Enjolras feels like he’s being bathed in flames. “Find us a table, I’ll get us something to drink. What do you want?”

“A cider will do me, thanks,” Enjolras says, already spotting a booth at the back of the area, hurrying to get to it before someone else can claim it for their own. It’s fairly secluded, but there’s a small TV in view so they’ll be able to see the countdown when it comes on.

R’s back three minutes to midnight, sliding over a bottle of cider to Enjolras, his own beer sitting in front of him. “Queue, sorry about that.”

“No worries,” Enjolras smiles. “How much was it?”

“I’m not accepting payment,” R says firmly, “not when the drinks are pretty cheap here and it’s New Year’s. Well, I’m not opposed to payment in the form of a New Year’s _kiss_ , but you don’t have to do that, obviously.”

Enjolras’ gaze drops to R’s lips briefly, long enough for him to imagine how they’d feel against his own. Any doubts about R liking men fizzle out once he says that. “I’ve never kissed someone at New Year’s, you know.”

“First time for everything?” R lifts his brows, the corner of his mouth quirking, and Enjolras can’t find a good reason not to say yes.

The bar staff announce that it’s one minute to midnight, calling everyone to hush as they turn up the TV. Enjolras’ eyes don’t leave R, not when R takes a swig of beer, or when the countdown begins, or when he leans across the small table between them, pressing his lips against R’s.

They’re not as soft as he thought they’d be, firm when R kisses back; ten glorious seconds of it before Enjolras is sitting down again, grinning smugly at the pleased surprise etched on R’s face. “Happy New Year, R.”

“Happy New Year, Curly,” R says. “Got any resolutions?”

“Drink more water and less coffee.” Enjolras has had that resolution in place for weeks now, after Feuilly pointed out how much coffee Enjolras actually drinks, and that more water would help with headaches. “I’ll tell you the second when you tell me your name.”

R laughs. “Not gonna let that go, are you?”

“No.” Enjolras shrugs, fiddling with the label on the cider bottle. “You’re not working, there’s no need to be professional anymore which means there’s no reason for me not to know your name. Mine’s –”

“Nope, no, absolutely not. I don’t want to know your name,” R holds his hands up in front of his chest, looking pointedly at Enjolras, “still clinging to the mystery here. I think I can live without knowing your second resolution, until I get it out of you another way, that is.”

“Ominous,” Enjolras scoffs, “I’m not that easy, and you’ll never guess.”

“Oh really?” R arches a brow, resting his elbows on the table and linking his fingers together. “You drink a lot of coffee, right?”

Enjolras nods.

“Black coffee?” Enjolras nods again. “So you must live a relatively stressful life, no one drinks black coffee for the taste. It’s probably something related to de-stressing. Detoxing every month?”

“God, no,” Enjolras scoffs, “none of that healthy living crap here.”

R’s face lights up as he laughs. “How about hobbies then? You seem like you’d be into some weird hobbies, like collecting old photos you find because they look cool, or like, notes you find in trolleys.”

Enjolras scrunches up his face as he giggles, the idea of him collecting any of those things is more than a little absurd. “Who leaves notes in trolleys?”

“I used to work in a supermarket,” R says, jabbing his finger in Enjolras’ direction, “you’d be surprised at the things people leave in trolleys.”

“Well, I don’t collect them.” Enjolras traces the neck of his bottle with a finger, eyes glued to R’s face. “But you’re close in thinking that it has something to do with my, uh, extracurricular activities. That’s all the help you’re getting, though.”

“Shit, Curly, are you a student?” R’s palms are flat on the table, his eyes wide, like the thought never occurred to him.

“Yeah,” Enjolras shrugs, “last year of undergrad law, looking to go into postgrad next, well technically _this_ year.”

“Jesus, no wonder you drink black coffee all the time,” R’s shaking his head slowly, causing Enjolras to giggle again. “So you’re twenty-one then?”

“It’s not that surprising, law’s a popular degree,” Enjolras grins, “and I’m twenty. Birthday’s in June. What about you?”

“Me? Never did anything like law,” R sits back then, spreading his arms out over the back of the chair, the movements already looking unnatural and awkward to Enjolras. “To be honest, it’s a miracle I even managed to get the degree, Art History by the way, spent more time in bars and getting high than I ever did in the lecture halls. And I’m feeling pretty fucking old right now, just turned twenty-seven.”

“You’re not that old – wait,” Enjolras makes a show of squinting at R’s hair, leaning over the table and plucking a strand from his head, “saw a grey hair. Got rid of it for you, though.”

“Funny,” R rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his lips is fond. At least Enjolras hopes it’s fond. “At least I’m not an actual child.”

“Fuck you, twenty’s not even a teenager,” Enjolras huffs, but R grins widely, as if Enjolras just proved his point. “I’m a responsible adult, and I don’t have to be here, mind you.”

“Sure, like you’d leave when the best part of the night is still to come.”

Enjolras raises his brows. “You buying me cheap cider _isn’t_ the best part of this evening? I’m shocked, truly.”

“Just because of that, you’re not getting any more free drinks from me,” R says, downing his own in one mesmerising movement.

Enjolras slaps his hand to his chest, scandalised. “However will I live?”

“Alcohol makes you sarcastic as well as clumsy,” R narrows his brows at him, “it suits you more than is fair.”

“How do you know I’m not always like this?” Enjolras asks, flushing a little at the less-than-subtle compliment.

“I don’t,” R shrugs, “I guess I’ll just have to find out somehow.”

Enjolras hums, smiling into the rim of his bottle. “You’ve got a lot of things to find out about me.”

“Well, we have only known each other for a few hours,” R points out. “But sure, twenty questions, why not? We’ll start off with something easy; favourite song?”

“Easy, he says,” Enjolras groans, “like there’s not a thousand possible answers to that. Okay, give me a moment.”

“Of course.”

Enjolras runs a hand through his springy curls, suddenly wishing he’d brought a bobble with him. R’s gaze has his brown skin flushing, heat prickling on the back of his neck, making it a little hard to think. “No judging,” he says after a long moment. “It changes a lot, but right now, _La Tortura_ , Shakira.”

R’s silent for a beat, staring at Enjolras incredulously, before laughter bursts from his lips, loud enough to startle the party sitting behind them. “ _That_ is not what I expected.”

“One of my best friends is Spanish,” Enjolras shrugs, a little defensive, “he sings it a lot, and I like Shakira.”

“It’s a great song,” R assures him, “great music video too, but just so not what I thought you were gonna say.”

“What did you think I’d say?”

“I figured you’d either be shamelessly into pop music,” R elaborates, “which, okay, Shakira kind of fits, but I was thinking more One Direction, top 40s kind of pop. Or like, pretentious indie hipster music you discovered months before everyone else did.”

“Those are both pretty accurate too. What can I say? I’m versatile,” Enjolras winks, startling another laugh out of R. It’s quickly becoming one of Enjolras’ favourite sounds, especially when he’s laughing _with_ Enjolras. “What about you?”

“Classic rock fan, myself,” R answers, “80s power ballads, twenty-minute solos, can’t be beaten.”

“Oh my God, you’re a music snob,” Enjolras gasps, delight contorting his lips into a broad grin. “I bet you’re the kind of guy to nod along to those YouTube comments like ‘this isn’t real music’.”

“Lies and slander,” R holds his hand to his chest, mock-hurt forming in the crease of his brows. “I like modern music, never said I didn’t, did I? I’m just saying, there’s something about the classic rock era that you can’t find today.”

“Music snob,” Enjolras repeats into his drink.

R waves his hand dismissively, “Whatever, next question.”

Within the hour Enjolras knows that the most embarrassing film R has ever cried over was _Finding Nemo_ , the worst outfit he’s ever worn was a pair of yellow corduroy trousers matched with red braces and a paisley shirt ( _“In my defence is was for a – no, I can’t defend that abomination_ ”) when he was fourteen, and a whole host of trivial information, but he _still_ doesn’t know R’s full name.

“If you would just tell me your name,” Enjolras says for the umpteenth time, following R out of the small bar and on to the streets of Paris. It’s still fairly busy, large groups of people stumbling drunkenly from bar to bar, clusters of smokers huddling as close to the warmth as they can, taxis lining the road for anyone that needs them. Enjolras struggles to avoid knocking into anyone as he walks next to R, pressing close to his side.

“Drop it, Curly,” R says, breath visible under the harsh light of the yellow street lamps. “’M not telling you.”

Enjolras pouts, letting R steer him through the streets until they’re approaching a small lane at the outskirts of the city centre. R beckons him through, and the more rational part of Enjolras’ brain (that’s maybe not as affected by all the alcohol he’s had) highlights that wandering down dark alleys at midnight with near-strangers is not a good idea. But R doesn’t really feel like a stranger to Enjolras anymore, and when Enjolras stumbles over a loose paving stone, R links their arms to steady him and Enjolras can’t bring himself to walk away.

“This is where you brought us?” They’ve come to a halt at the gate of a small public park, completely empty and lit by one single lamppost at the edge of the tarmac and the watery moonlight. They wash the park in a mix of silver and gold, eerily beautiful and isolated from the rest of the world. “We left the warmth of that bar for a park?”

“Don’t knock the park,” R tells him, hopping over the fence and grinning at Enjolras, teeth glinting white in the darkness. “It’s an important place to me. Over there,” he points to the rickety-looking set of swings, “is where I had my first kiss, and over there,” the top of the slide, “is where I broke my arm falling off the slide because I was a little shit who couldn’t stay still, and over there,” the open space between the see-saw and the railings, “is where I built the world’s greatest snowman with my best friend when I was eight.”

“What made it so great?” Enjolras asks, climbing less elegantly over the fence himself.

“The fact that it was made by me,” R declares, bowing dramatically enough for Enjolras to roll his eyes. “Nah, we really went for it. Hat, scarf, carrot nose, raisin eyes and proper buttons, even spent ages finding the perfect twigs for arms.”

“I’m sure it was amazing,” Enjolras says.

“Modern art at its finest.” R sits on one of the two swings, swaying side-to-side gently, and motioning for Enjolras to sit on the other.

He watches the stars and sky for a long moment, sitting in comfortable silence with R. He knows that he could pick any direction and walk, ten minutes in he’d be out of the field the park resides in, and back in the city where people are still celebrating the New Year. But with the softness of R’s breathing and the squeaking of the swing’s chains the only things making a noise, Enjolras feels entirely cut off.

“You know you never did tell me your New Year’s resolution,” he murmurs, almost afraid to break the silence. “Or if you even have one?”

“Well,” R starts, rocking back and forth on the swing, “as much as I’m a firm believer in the idea that if you’re gonna make a change, you may as well start it now instead of waiting for some big occasion, I do see the appeal of starting off a new year with goals in mind. So, I do have a resolution; to write down at least one good thing that happens to me every day. Supposed to help me be less sceptical or something.”

“I like that,” Enjolras muses, matching his swings to R’s. “Positive thinking is important. What would you say today’s good thing is?”

“Curly, it’s like half-one,” R laughs, “writing something down already might be jumping the gun a bit, don’t you think?”

“No,” Enjolras tells him, “you did say _at least_ one thing, right? Surely there’s something you can think of?”

“You’re angling for me to say ‘meeting you’, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras cries out, lying through his teeth really because that _was_ what he was angling for.

“I technically met you yesterday,” R says, “so it wouldn’t even count anyway. Maybe the fact that I haven’t gotten frostbite yet even though it’s bloody freezing out here and I didn’t bring gloves because apparently I hate myself.”

“Good enough for now I suppose.”

“Don’t forget that I’m still gonna find out your second resolution,” R bumps his swing into Enjolras’, almost knocking him off. “Can’t stop me figuring it out that easily.”

“Unless you guess, I’m not telling you,” Enjolras states, clenching his fingers around the icy metal. “Or, you could tell me your –”

“Nope,” R cuts in, bumping into Enjolras’ swing again. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence.”

“Fine,” Enjolras pouts, jumping off the swing and barely managing to keep himself upright as he hits the tarmac. “Come see-saw with me.”

“So demanding, Curly.” R joins him on the see-saw anyway, pushing down on the slanted seat so he can actually climb on, evening them out. Enjolras shivers when a gasp of cold air sneaks under his coat, prickling his skin.

“Why did we leave a place with heating for this?” he whines through clenched teeth; to keep himself from falling off the see-saw, he needs to hold on to the metal handles, which really wouldn’t be a problem, except they’re so bloody cold his fingers feel like they’re burning.

“At least you’ve got a coat and all that hair to keep you warm,” R tells him, which, he has a point, but really that’s no one but R’s fault.

“I’d give you mine but I might freeze to death without it, so maybe not.” Enjolras has to squeeze his thighs together to stop himself slipping off as R rather aggressively kicks off from the ground, jolting Enjolras forwards. “Hey, that was a dick move.”

“Maybe,” R allows, pushing off the ground gentler this time.

“You’re right about my hair though.” Enjolras shakes his head, watching the curls bounce across his field of vision. “It’s long and thick enough that it keeps my neck warm.”

“It’s looking particularly lovely in the moonlight,” R adds, a softness to his voice that makes Enjolras smile.

“I didn’t always like it,” he says, “used to hate it. Would always get picked on because of it. Too big and too ‘wild’ and not white enough for the kids at school. Mum wouldn’t let me cut it though, insisted I’d regret it. She’d just style it for me so it was out of the way. Kept it like that until I came to uni and thought fuck all those people that made me hate it. So I grew it out, dyed it blonde, and here we are.”

“Good for you.” R’s staring at him wondrously, lips curved and smile soft. “If only I could get some of that attitude, I might finally be able to stop hating the way people stare at the mark on my face.”

There’s a beat where Enjolras thinks he should say something, but R’s jumping off the see-saw before he has the chance. He tugs Enjolras off, wrapping strong hands around Enjolras’ upper arm, and leading him to the slide, right in the centre of the park.

“C’mon, climb up,” he instructs, ushering Enjolras up the metal steps until he’s curled up on the stop, long legs pulled too tightly against his body to be comfortable. “Okay, I need you to stand up.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” Enjolras hisses, gripping the sides of the slide on instinct. “I’ll fucking fall.”

“Do you trust me?” R whispers in Enjolras’ ear, his hands settling on Enjolras’ waist and encouraging him to stand.

“Oh, now you’re quoting _Aladdin_!” Enjolras finds himself standing despite his reservations, shakily clinging to R behind him as the ground gets further away. “I swear if you’re pushing me off this thing, I’m taking you with me.”

“Relax, Curly.” R stands behind him, smaller than him to begin with and smaller still when he’s positioned on the top step, just below Enjolras. He feels R’s forehead rest between his shoulders, rubbing against the soft fabric of his coat. “Spread your arms okay.”

“This isn’t making me feel safer, you know,” Enjolras grumbles, but he does it anyway. R wraps his arms around Enjolras’ torso, and realisation hits him like lightning. “ _Titanic_? Really, R?”

“Hey, this is iconic,” R insists, swaying them side-to-side gently. “How’s your voice, Curly? Reckon you could sing _My Heart Will Go On_?”

“Probably not,” Enjolras grins, leaning back into R as much as he dares. Falling off the slide and breaking a bone really isn’t how he wants to start the New Year. “A little dramatic for just a park, don’t you think?”

“Are you kidding? This view is great,” R says, even though Enjolras knows he can’t really see much unless he angles his head. “I feel like I’m king of the world!” He shouts the last part, his voice filling the silence of the park and travelling further afield. “ _Fuck_!” He yells, extending the vowel until he’s breathless and giggling.

“Having fun?” Enjolras beams, desperately wishing he could turn around and face R; see the light in eyes as he laughs.

“It’s cathartic,” R replies, “try it.”

“What would I even yell?”

“Anything.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and screams “I’m fucking freezing right now!” at the top of his lungs, hot breath pooling in front of him. R was right, it is strangely cathartic yelling anything and everything into the darkness. R shouts again, and Enjolras joins in, getting louder and louder with each word.

Enjolras spots the light in the distance first, a beam from a torch honing in on them. “Hey! You two, get out of there!”

“Shit, police,” R hisses, pressing down on Enjolras’ hips. “Slide, Curly, fucking slide.”

“Wha—” He’s being pushed down the slide before he can finish the word, R jumping off the slide behind him in what was probably a stupid move, he could have seriously hurt himself by doing that, really, what was he thinking? But Enjolras doesn’t have time to confront him; R’s grabbing his wrist and hauling him to his feet, breaking out into a sprint that Enjolras struggles to keep up with.

They scramble over the railings and don’t stop running until they’ve left the field entirely, and taken a couple of quick turns down the first few side streets they came across. Enjolras’ lungs are burning when they finally stop, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright as he leans against the closest wall, not caring how dirty it is, as long as he can get his breath back.

R looks manic, hair dishevelled, grin plastered to his lips, and bright eyes, even in the darkness of the alley. He sinks to the ground, kicking his legs out, and laughs sharply. “Nothing like running from the police to kick off your New Year.”

“Almost broke my second resolution already,” Enjolras gasps, slumping next to R. He should probably stretch his legs out so they don’t stiffen later, but God, he really can’t be bothered. “Don’t get arrested as much.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” R stares, open-mouthed and incredulous. “You’ve been arrested enough that _that’s_ your second resolution. What fucking extracurricular activities do you _do?_ ”

Enjolras laughs weakly, resting his head back against the grimy wall. “I’m in an activist group. Very politically motivated, so there’s a lot of protests I go to, and some end up with people getting arrested. It hasn’t been _that_ many times, though, just enough that the joke resolution my friend suggested is probably worth sticking to.”

“I can’t believe it.” R mimics Enjolras’ position, head back and staring straight at him. “Ever actually been to prison?”

“Nothing more than a Custody Suite for a few hours,” Enjolras tells him. “Still not particularly pleasant.” His last word catches on the beginning of a yawn, forcing him to angle his face away from R’s.

“Tired already, Curly?” R asks. Enjolras can hear the grin in his voice. “And you call yourself a student. Shameful. It’s what, half one?”

Enjolras checks his phone, “It’s quarter-past two, actually, and I happen to have an alright sleep schedule.”

“Sure you do,” R winks conspiratorially, “it’s not like you’re a bloody law student or anything.”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras shoves R’s shoulder playfully, taking him by surprise and almost knocking him over. R steadies himself at the last minute, nudging Enjolras back.

“Your turn, Curly,” R says before Enjolras can shove him back. “Find something for us to do, preferably not illegal though. I’ve never been arrested and I refuse to let you corrupt me after just one night.”

“You’re no fun,” Enjolras pouts, face splitting into a smile when he sees shock flicker across R’s features. “Relax, I wasn’t planning anything illegal. Don’t know any places we can go this late, though.”

“So it falls to me,” R muses. “I think I might have been invited to a party at a friend’s house we could crash.”

“Do you still have parties that last this long when you’re thirty?”

“Twenty-fucking-seven,” R snaps, affronted. “It’ll still be in full swing with _plenty_ of alcohol, thank you very much.”

“Let’s go there then,” Enjolras beams.

***

True to R’s word, the house party is still going strong when they arrive, somewhere near quarter to three. Enjolras is actually kind of impressed. The front door is open, so they slip inside, navigating their way through the clusters of people into what was probably a living room, but has been drastically rearranged to accommodate the number of guests. All the settees are pushed back against the walls, predictably occupied, to clear space for people to dance if they want, though at this stage of the evening, Enjolras notes it’s more drunken grinding.

“Kitchen should be through there,” R whispers in Enjolras’ ear, just loud enough to be heard over the music playing from various speakers in the room. Whoever put together the playlist has good taste, Enjolras thinks, humming along to the upbeat song.

The kitchen is less crowded, only a few people mulling around the island stocked with drinks and snacks, before heading back to the rest of the house and party.

“Give us your coat, Curly,” R says, holding out his hand expectantly. “I’ll stash it with the plates, right, so it’ll be easy to find later and no one’s gonna steal it.”

Enjolras shrugs out of his coat and chucks it over to R, watching him stuff it and his own hoodie into the far left cupboard, before turning to survey the drinks. Most bottles are near empty, but Enjolras thinks there’s enough rum and Coke left for them both to get suitably pissed.

“Fancy a drink?” Enjolras asks, grabbing two unused plastic cups from a stack and setting them in front of the bottle of rum. “Since you’re off the clock, I’ll make you something.”

“Wait, I’ve got something better if you want it instead?”

Enjolras arches a brow, staring at R as he starts searching other cupboards and draws. He drops his gaze to R’s arse, admiring the tightness of his trousers as he bends over. Really, Enjolras would have been happy for R to keep looking for another few moments, but he lets out a triumphant cry after checking the cupboard stuffed with herbs and spices.

“Here,” R passes a small tin to Enjolras, dusting off his thighs and shutting the cupboard door.

“You know, when you said ‘something better’ I was expecting party drugs or well, something more than weed,” Enjolras muses, setting the lid on the table and nudging the baggy of weed.

“If it’s not good enough for you then…” R trails off, plucking the tin from Enjolras’ hands.

“Didn’t say that,” Enjolras counters. “Just thought you were gonna bring out something more illicit than weed. Speaking of which, how did you know that was there?”

“I told you, I know the guy who lives here,” R shrugs, gesturing for Enjolras to follow him out of the kitchen and into the living area. “He’s also a giant dick, so I don’t mind stealing his emergency stash. Oh – people are getting up, go Curly, take their seat.”

Enjolras is pushed through a gap between two people dancing, almost making it to the settee in time but someone else collapses on to the cushions. He keeps walking anyway, spotting a gap between two settees that’s free of people.

“Ever rolled a joint before?” R asks when they’re tucked away in the corner of the room, close enough to a speaker that they have to shout to be heard over the music, but far away enough from the crowd in the centre of the room that Enjolras doesn’t feel trapped where he is.

“Nope,” Enjolras answers, figuring that there’s no point in lying to impress. R would see through him straight away, he’s sure. “Never even smoked one before.”

“Christ, and you were expecting me to whip out hard drugs?”

“Not hard drugs!” Enjolras protests, but R doesn’t seem to be listening. He hands Enjolras the tin for the second time and picks out a strip of paper. His fingers make quick work of putting it together, tongue tracing the seal when he’s finished.

“Since it’s your first time and all, figured we’d share,” R tells him, “you alright with that?”

Enjolras nods, setting the tin on to the armrest and leaning back against the wall. He hopes he manages to look vaguely alluring, and not at all like a prick. “I’m assuming you’ve got a light?”

“Yep, hold this.” Enjolras takes the joint from R’s hands as he fishes a lighter from his pocket. He lights it with ease, pocketing the lighter and taking the joint from Enjolras’ fingers.

Enjolras watches R inhale, holding the curls of smoke in his chest before exhaling gently. A lazy smile stretches across R’s face, his eyes darkening as he stares at Enjolras.

“Go slow,” he murmurs, handing over the joint, “and don’t swallow.”

Enjolras’ takes a tentative drag, letting the smoke rest heavy in his lungs. His limbs feel a little lighter, his chest warmer, but everything is ruined when coughs rack his body before he can exhale. He hears R laugh, a low rough sound, and looks up in time to see R step closer, backing Enjolras against the wall and taking the joint back.

“First time smoking can have that effect,” he says, resting his weight on his free hand, pressed into the space above Enjolras’ shoulder. “Here, open your mouth a little.”

Enjolras parts his lips, following R’s instructions on instinct, and feels his breath hitching as R inhales slowly, moving so that his lips are a whisper away from Enjolras’ and exhaling the smoke into Enjolras’ mouth. He moans a little at the sensation, chasing R’s lips when he steps back, his hands curling tightly in R’s shirt.

“Better?” R asks when Enjolras manages to breathe out before he starts choking again.

“Much,” Enjolras nods, grinning down at R.

Whatever song was playing before, Enjolras wasn’t exactly paying attention, fades into a familiar melody. He recognises it as a Shakira song the same time R pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist, and rocking his hips in time with the beat.

“Not quite your favourite song, Curly,” R whispers, breath hot on Enjolras’ skin. “But don’t tell me you don’t know the words.”

He’ll blame it on the weed in the morning, the reason why he tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut, and starts belting out the lyrics to ‘ _Hips Don’t Lie_ ’ with near perfect timing. He feels electric as he dances, can hear R singing along between taking another drag from the joint. Sliding his thigh between R’s legs, Enjolras moves impossibly closer, grinding against R more than he’s dancing at this point.

“Open up,” R says, giving Enjolras a second to process his words before he’s breathing more sickly sweet smoke between his lips, eliciting a moan that’d be far more embarrassing if he were sober.

They dance straight through to the next song, one Enjolras doesn’t recognise, but that doesn’t stop him throwing his arms around R’s neck as heat pools in his stomach. This wasn’t his plan for the evening, getting off with some stranger in a foreign house, but fuck, R’s lips are more and more tempting as the night progresses.

Enjolras doesn’t know how long they’ve been dancing when R pulls him back into a different room, one where the air is cleaner, less foggy, murmuring something about finding somewhere to crash. Enjolras is too out of it to reply, just wants a drink and maybe for R to blow him. He settles for being led further into the house, trusting that R will take care of him.

“All the rooms are taken,” R tells him at some point, guiding him through a door and into a bathroom, “but baths are better than floors, so in you get.”

Getting in the bathtub would mean R taking his hands off Enjolras, no need to manhandle him anymore; the thought makes Enjolras whine. “Want you,” he mumbles, turning and curling his fists in R’s shirt. “Want you to touch me.”

R takes Enjolras’ hands in his, pushing him closer to the bath and away from him. “Curly, you’re so fucking wasted right now, I’m not doing anything.”

Enjolras pouts, trying to get his arms around R but again, he’s stopped. R gestures to the bath with raised brows. Enjolras relents, climbing into the tub and opening up his arms. R chuckles to himself and joins him, positioning them so he’s curling around Enjolras in the cramped space, breath warm on Enjolras’ skin.

“Happy now?”

Enjolras hums, pulling R’s arms around his waist even tighter and shutting his eyes. He drifts off in moments.

***

Enjolras wakes with his face pressed against something cold, watery light assaulting his closed eyes. He groans, regretting it instantly when the rawness of his throat becomes apparent, and rolls over. A few moments of uncomfortable attempts to get more sleep prove to be useless, so Enjolras gives in and opens his eyes.

He’s in a bathtub, is the first thing he notices. He’s in a bathtub in a bathroom he doesn’t recognise, with a slight hangover and an overwhelming desire to go back to sleep.

Stretching out stiff joints, he climbs out of the tub and stares at his reflection in the square mirror hanging over the sink. Other than the bags under his eyes he doesn’t look too bad, so clearly he managed to get through the night without getting into a fight. Small mercies.

Last night floods back to him after he splashes water on his face and finishes up in the bathroom. He remembers dark hair and bright eyes and the port wine stain that contorted when he smiled, strong hands on his hips and cupping his jaw, smoke curling in his lungs, yelling in the park. _R_.

“Fuck,” Enjolras hisses. He ventures out of the bathroom, patting down his pockets to make sure his phone’s still there (it is, always a good sign). It’s not like Enjolras can call him, he didn’t get a name let alone a phone number, but Enjolras would really, really like to.

R isn’t anywhere upstairs as far as Enjolras can tell, nor is he one of the many people still sleeping in the living room (it’s not even eight, _why_ is he awake again?) or anywhere else that Enjolras has looked. He checks again, because the thought of just missing R wake up or leave makes Enjolras’ stomach twist uncomfortably, but still, nothing.

Giving up, Enjolras walks back to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards until he finds the one where R stashed his coat, the hoodie that was with it already missing. Enjolras tries not to let the disappointment overwhelm him, focusing on getting home as fast as possible. Probably for the best, he rationalises hopelessly, getting attached to a man who won’t tell you his name isn’t worth it.

***

He gives Courfeyrac until noon to wake up, before calling him.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac greets on the third ring. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year to you too, Courf,” Enjolras replies, already feeling more at ease. He draws his legs closer to his chest, curling up in the corner of their long settee. He puts Courfeyrac on loudspeaker to fill the room with his voice; the silence was overwhelming when Enjolras first came home. “You have a good night?”

“Amazing,” Courfeyrac says, something shuffling in the background. Enjolras assumes he’s still in bed; Courfeyrac was always a late riser, especially after long nights. “My family had a huge party, _so_ much fun. I think my ears are still ringing, and _Combeferre_ , he got so smashed it was truly a spectacle. I’ll show you the videos when we get back.”

“Unless he’s convinced you to delete them before then.”

“Oh no,” Enjolras can picture Courfeyrac shaking his head with perfect clarity. “Nope, these are never going, I’m gonna have them at our inevitable wedding, at yours, at every function we ever go to. When you see them, you’ll understand.”

“Can’t wait,” Enjolras grins, tucking hair behind his ear.

“What about you? Manage to find something to do?”

“Well,” Enjolras sighs, “I met a guy, no I didn’t have a one night stand, just to get that question out the way.” Courfeyrac whines a little, the noise crackling through the speakers, eliciting a laugh out of Enjolras. “He was working at the first bar I went to, we uh, we flirted a little, I guess –”

“You scoundrel.”

“—and he offered to spend the night with me, and well, that’s what happened. Nothing more than a New Year’s kiss, though I _might_ have tried to proposition him while I was high, maybe.”

There’s a drawn out silence where Enjolras can only hear Courfeyrac’s soft breath and the rustle of bed covers shifting. He waits another thirty seconds before whispering a tentative, “Courfeyrac?”

“I can’t believe it,” Courfeyrac says, breathless, “I cannot believe it. You got _high_ , hit on some guy, all on New Year’s, and no one, absolutely _no one_ , was there to film it!”

“We also danced to Shakira if that makes a difference.”

“I hate you so much right now. Are you seeing him again? Please tell me I can meet him and grill him about all of this.”

“That’s where things get…a little awkward,” Enjolras picks at the hem of his t-shirt, undoing a loose thread. “We didn’t actually exchange names, let alone phone numbers, and I can’t exactly remember which bar he worked at? So unless I bump into him again…”

“You’re shitting me.” Courfeyrac sounds so appalled Enjolras freezes. “Enjolras, you are living a romcom, like, this guy is probably your soulmate, so no pressure, but you’ve got to find him.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

“Can you remember _anything_ about the bar?”

“It wasn’t too far from the city centre,” Enjolras says, racking his brain for any information he can think of.

“Okay, well, that narrows it down to like, every bar in Paris.”

“I have no idea, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras sighs, “I’ll have a look round later tonight, he could be working again. He let me call him ‘R’ so it’s not like I’m gonna be able to google that.”

“Keep me updated,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “I’ve gotta go, I think Combeferre’s just finished with lunch, but I’m invested in this, so ring me later, yeah?”

“Will do, talk later,” Enjolras says, hanging up and resting his head back on the settee. Would R even want to see him again? He left without a single word, no message, absolutely nothing to tell Enjolras where he went or why he left, so surely that’s a strong sign in favour of him not wanting to see Enjolras again, but… But he remembers how R smiled at him in the park, and how he held Enjolras as they dance, and fuck, how he took care of Enjolras while he was high and still a little drunk and probably two moves from dropping to his knees in front of him. It’s worth a try.

***

Come half-ten, Enjolras still hasn’t found R. He hasn’t even found either of the bars he visited last night. Defeated, he’s subconsciously wandered down the street that leads off into the park R took him to.

It’s just as quiet as the night before, and infinitely lonelier. Enjolras takes a seat on one of the swings, rocking back and forth as he watches his breath pool in front of his face. It’s kind of pathetic, he thinks, pining over a guy he really doesn’t know that well, except he feels like he _does_ know R, or at least he knows enough of the important things (like how pretty his smile is, and how rough his voice is when he’s high) for this to matter. He can excuse his pathetic self for a night.

He’s not too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the figure in a familiar dark grey hoodie hopping over the railings and heading straight towards Enjolras on the swings. Enjolras barely as a moment to collect his thoughts before R’s standing in front of him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Curly?”

“The very same,” Enjolras says carefully, eyes drawn to R’s.

“Shit,” R laughs, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He slumps on to the empty swing, rocking back with the movement. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I didn’t want to!” R hastens to add. “Just, after I came back to the house this morning you were gone and well, no way to contact you, so I figured that was it.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Ah, I got a call at like six in the morning, right? One of my friends ringing me about a goat problem or something, I’ll be honest it was kind of a blur. He just started rambling about how we have a goat now because leaving a goat with an abusive owner is more immoral than stealing said goat, which you know, fair enough, but I still don’t know how they came across the goat in the first place? _Anyway_ , he was all ‘Grantaire, Grantaire, I’m not ready to be a parent yet, you’ve gotta help me’ and he was definitely still drunk, so long story short I had to go find a goat a home and – what? What’s that grin for?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats slowly. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Grantaire.”

“Technically,” R allows.

Enjolras frowns. “Technically?”

“It’s my last name.”

“What’s your first name?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Fuck off,” Enjolras groans, throwing his hands into the air. “Are you kidding me? I _still_ don’t get your full name?”

“You’ve got to buy me a few more drinks for that piece of information, Curly,” Grantaire grins, undeniably smug and Enjolras really shouldn’t like it as much as he does.

“It’s Enjolras,” he says, “but you’re not getting my first name either then.” Sure, he’s neglecting to tell Grantaire that he doesn’t actually use his first name either, but details.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeats, the syllables rolling off his tongue. “It suits you, but alright, no forename. How about I get your phone number instead? We can avoid more goat-related separation that way.”

“Smooth,” Enjolras grants, digging his phone out of his pocket and handing it to Grantaire. R. _Grantaire_. “Is that a pun? Your name.”

“Guilty as charged,” Grantaire beams, handing Enjolras’ phone back. “Impressed you got it, honestly. A lot of people don’t.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Enjolras retorts, though he can’t help the lighthearted tone given the circumstances. “It’s not that clever.”

The smile doesn’t fade from Grantaire’s lips, even when the creak of the swings is the only noise between them. Enjolras studies Grantaire’s profile in the dim light, trying to come up with something, _anything_ , to say. Something that will preferably end with a date being arranged and maybe a kiss. Enjolras remembers Grantaire’s lips, soft against his own, and he’d really, _really_ , like to kiss him again.

“So I’ve actually got somewhere to be, this evening?” Grantaire starts, and well, that’s not really what Enjolras was going for. “I know, it’s nearly eleven, but I promised my friend, the goat parent, that I’d pick him up from a thing and that means I’ve got to go get my car, but I’d like to see you again. Like, tomorrow, maybe?”

“Yes,” Enjolras blurts out, eyes widening from embarrassment at how eager he sounded. It just makes Grantaire’s smile spread even wider though. “Uh, yes, that’d be great. What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll surprise you,” Grantaire says, standing and stretching out his back.

Enjolras laughs. “Is that code for ‘I haven’t got a clue yet’?”

“A little bit,” Grantaire admits. “But text me your address and I’ll be at your flat at like, six?”

“I can do that.” Enjolras stands and steps closer, a breath away from kissing Grantaire.

Grantaire’s lips part a little, nodding his head ever-so-slightly, and Enjolras closes the distance, kissing him softly. It doesn’t progress much more than that; a gentle press of lips, Grantaire tracing the seam of Enjolras’ mouth before pulling away, cheeks flushed. His port-wine stain stands out even more, and Enjolras has never seen anyone look so breathtaking.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Enjolras asks, brows raised.

“Right, yeah, I should head off now then.” Grantaire nods, kissing Enjolras against briefly, before he walks to the railings. He glances back over his shoulder at Enjolras at least three times. Enjolras preens. “See you tomorrow, Enjolras.”

“Happy New Year, Grantaire!”

 


End file.
